Bubble Bath
by Jyght
Summary: John didn't know that Consulting Detectives took baths.
1. Lavender

"Sherlock?"

John shut the door to the flat behind him and looked around the living room and kitchen. "Hey, Sherlock? I'm starving, let's order out."

John hung his coat up. "Sherlock! Your coat is right here, I'm hungry, its late, I'm ordering for myself if you don't answer!"

John stood still, listening. Episodes of heavy silence in the flat had always been something to expect at any given moment… but right now, John was filled with dread.

Sherlock had been increasingly reckless lately. Last week he came home from work to find two assassins being escorted out of the flat by Lestrade and the Donovan. Nobody knew exactly where Sherlock managed to acquire a chainsaw with a _flamethrower_ attachment, and he refused to give a helpful answer.

The sequence of events of the conflict weren't unusual, but Sherlock took a bloody beating after they disarmed him, landing him in the hospital for 3 days.

The 'thrill of the game' was one thing, but John truly worries about him, whether it's neglect of taking care of himself, or personally inviting assassins into the flat for tea.

John's thoughts were interrupted by a very faint noise. It sounded like a splash of water and… a _squeak_?

He moved towards the source of the sound and heard another small splash coming from the bathroom. The door was cracked and the light was on. He approached the door cautiously, knowing far too well that this could be one of Sherlock's infamous experiments.

John made his way into the hall and was lifting his hand to knock when he breathed in an odd combination of scents. ' _Cigarette smoke, lavender, and…_ disinfectant?'

"Sherlock are you in there?"

"Of course I am." John felt himself relax a little hearing that familiar baritone voice, knowing Sherlock was safe. He sounded slightly annoyed as if he'd been interrupted.

John tried to resist the urge to peek through the crack in the door. It wasn't that he wanted to _see anything_ , but Sherlock was always doing experiments and (Although he would never admit it) John was curious.

"What are you doing in there? I smell disinfectant, did you bring body parts into the bathroom? We've talked about this!"

Sherlock let out a rumbling sigh. "I'm taking a bath."

John straightened up in surprise and his eyebrows creased together. He repeated the last words with confusion. " _A bath_?"

"Yes, John, a _bath_. A large container filled with water, used for immersing and wash-"

"Sherlock, I know what a bath is." John heard another splash and the sound of skin rubbing against the side of the tub.

"Then why did you feel the need to repeat the word ' _bath_ ' in such an incredulous tone?"

John shook his head, smiling. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I just never would have pegged you as someone who would enjoy bathing."

Sherlock let out a soft hmf. "Are you claiming that I have poor hygiene?"

John rolled his eyes at the wooden door. He cleared his throat before continuing, "No, I'm just saying that you might be okay with getting all sorts of gunk on you for a case or experiment, but you have high standards of hygiene in general. Sitting in a tub of your own dirty water doesn't seem very…"

"Very _what_ , John?"

John chuckled. "Very _Sherlocky_."

Sherlock snapped in response. "That's because I _don't_."

John jumped a little. It was the tone Sherlock used many times before whenever he felt the urge to insult creatures of lesser intelligence (usually Anderson).

"The pleasure of taking a bath is to soak in hot water and relax in the enveloping liquid. Why would anyone wish to take a bath in filthy water?"

Sherlock's response only served to further confuse John. "But isn't that what you're doing in there? You're in the bathtub."

This time it was Sherlock who chuckled. His tone was imperious with his response. "No, John, I'm taking a _proper_ bath." John heard some water drip over the edge of the tub and onto the tile floor. "Sherlock, I still don't follow. What exactly is a proper bath then?"

"Ahh, finally a decent question. A proper, enjoyable bath starts with a thorough shower. Next, one cleans the tub to remove any undesirable substances, hence the disinfectant. One then rinses the tub, fills it with hot water, and prepares for a relaxing bath." Sherlock rambled off the list of instructions as if they were a regular routine for any 'normal' human being.

John bit back a laugh and leaned against the edge of the door frame. He knew that even behind a door, the detective would likely have deduced John's expression, as well as his thoughts. ' _Probably_ _by_ _my breathing or something_.' John gave in and giggled.

"What is so amusing this time, John?" John heard him moving in the tub again. "Oh nothing. I guess I really shouldn't be surprised that you could take something simple as a bath and make it complicated."

Sherlock huffed. "It's not complicated, it's perfectly logical and effective, but it is becoming far less enjoyable with you pestering me."

John shuffled his feet for a moment. "How much longer are you going to be in there? I could use a shower too, long day at the surgery."

Sherlock splashed more water around. "Can it wait? It's only been eleven minutes and fourteen seconds since I started my bath."

"Fine, but don't be in there forever." John shook his head as he walked away. He might as well have a shower when Sherlock's done in there. John jogged up the steps to his room to grab some clean clothes.

...

For visual reference, this is an alcove bathtub. the bottom of the tub is inclined enough at the opposite end of the tub from the faucet, so he can rest his neck and shoulders against it almost comfortably.

...

"Fine, but don't be in there forever."

Sherlock smirked and sank back down into the bubbles, his left arm resting on the side of the tub. His smirk was soon replaced with a frown because he was struggling to get comfortable again.

John's interruption really wasn't the _worst_ aspect of his bath, the size of the bathtub was. Sherlock may be tall, but the tub was inadequately suited for any person slightly larger than Mrs. Hudson by his estimations.

Sherlock flexed his toes against the cool porcelain under the faucet that was still warming up from the hot water. He just barely was able to lay down with his knees bent. His neck and shoulders were flush against the back of the tub and his head was tipped back slightly, resting on the edge.

It had been a very, _very_ long and tedious day. Sherlock was following a suspected terrorist throughout the city all day. He confronted and chased the woman through the streets and down alleyways until she hit a dead end and he blocked her in.

Sherlock hadn't known when or where she had planted the next bomb, but after he observed her while she was cornered, he correctly deduced every minute detail and she confessed that he was correct, of course. Well… _almost_ correct. She had a pastry for breakfast, not toast. Sherlock shook his head. ' _There's always something._ '

It was when she realized that Sherlock was unarmed, he spent the next ten minutes running away from the _confirmed_ terrorist and then hid in a dumpster for another half hour.

Sherlock had tried to call John, but John was at _work_. ' _Why does John even want a boring position he's ridiculously overqualified for? He could easily have a higher paying position somewhere other than the clinic, preferably somewhere with less restricting hours_.'

Sherlock shook his head again, harder this time. He closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. ' _Mmm lavender._ '

He thought back to his childhood. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock had been a fairly energetic child. He would play for hours, pretending to be a pirate, running around the woods near his home. Mummy would always tut at the mud and dirt he would track through the house and make him shower.

Sherlock had hated showers as a child, they were noisy, the curtains made everything dark, and the water would splash over his face.

He was about seven years old when he realized he could take a very quick shower to get clean, then he could lazily recline in the bathtub for as long as mummy would let him. He then discovered that he could add soap while the faucet ran and the water would be covered with scented bubbles. Lavender was his favorite.

To young Sherlock, the large tub felt like a small, bubbly swimming pool, but it wasn't nearly as comforting at the moment. ' _Is this just too confined of a space, or am I too old for baths now? I don't see how one could 'outgrow' baths in a non-literal way. It's not something that a change in maturity should affect, however a difference in height certainly would._ '

Sherlock's frustration was continuing to rise so he attempted to shut out the thoughts. He squeezed the floating yellow bathtoy for the fourth time that evening and was rewarded with a quiet _squeak_. Sherlock couldn't stop the reverberating laugh that worked its way out. _'Definitely have not outgrown baths.'_ He ran his fingers through his wet hair and softly began humming. It was no song in particular, just a flow of combinations of baritone notes. He let his mind wander with the tune.

...

Thank you guys for the feedback!!


	2. Cuppa?

John's clean clothes were in a neatly folded stack next to where he was sitting on the edge of his bed. He opened his laptop and pulled up his favorite Word document. John had started a list a couple months earlier of the numerous behaviors and quirks of the great Sherlock Holmes, and he discovers more every week.

' _Where do I put this one on the list? Should it go between_ hates grapes with a passion _and_ dislikes puppies but loves old dogs ?'

John scrolled through the document a bit more. When he started making the list, he had attempted to rank them by how surprising they were, but its hard to put a ranking to them. John skimmed the lines as he read through, laughing at some of his favorites.

He finally settled on where to wedge it into the list, hit enter, and typed it up.

18\. Can't pronounce "penguin"

19\. Takes baths (possibly bubble baths, need more data)

20\. Claims it was for a case, but he once listened to several hours of Britney Spears and SANG ALONG

John saved the document and shut his laptop with a soft _click_. ' _It's been a good amount of time, I'll just make a cuppa and Sherlock should be done by then_.' He grabbed his clothes and padded down the stairs and into the kitchen. He put on the kettle, considering the different teas in the cabinet.

He pulled down two mugs and grabbed the sugar, even though he doesn't take sugar in his own tea. Making a second tea for Sherlock when he made his own has become an unconscious routine. The infuriating detective rarely touched, let alone finished his tea, but John still makes it for him every time.

He hummed absentmindedly and found a sleeve of chocolate biscuits. The kettle whistled just before John heard the squeal of metal curtain rings dragging over the metal curtain rod in the loo and the shower head turned on. _'Must be rinsing off then.'_ John let the tea steep and heard Sherlock finish up and go into his room.

John was just stirring sugar into Sherlock's mug when he appeared in the kitchen in his blue dressing gown and pajamas. Sherlock ruffled his damp curls and glanced at John. "Cuppa?" Sherlock stood there a moment blinking hard, before he seemed to register that John was even in the room. "Sherlock, you alright?"

The detective simply blinked again, going to the fridge to pull out the milk. He walked back to John and traded the carton for the mug, holding it up like a child holding out their hand for sweets. John almost laughed at the gesture. _'He won't thank me but he brings_ me _the milk to put in_ his _tea. I really don't understand you Sherlock.'_

"Ta, Sherlock." John chuckled and poured the milk generously. Sherlock only had milk in his tea when he was having a rough day.

"Hmm." Sherlock went to sit cross-legged on the couch, already sipping at his mug. John knew the different types of Sherlock's silence by now, and he was worried for the second time today about his flatmate.

John could tell that Sherlock was lost in his head, but it wasn't about a case. At the same time, he wasn't fidgety and anxious, he wasn't _bored_. It was a melancholic silence and John felt the need to fill it with conversation instead of leaving Sherlock alone.

"Sherlock?" No response. John put the milk away and tried again, louder. "Sherlock? Any cases?"

"Hm."

"Okay... hungry?"

" _Hmmmmmm_..."

That was Sherlockian for _'Yes, John, I am hungry, but I will not admit I have basic needs of my transport. Please, John, bring me food, I appreciate it, but will not show any outward gratitude or semblance of_ sentiment.'

John had puttered around the kitchen long enough by now for Sherlock's nearly full mug to grow cold. John walked over to the couch and gently pried it from his hands. He had an idea, his shower could wait.


	3. Lost

Sherlock had lost track of time, but a significant amount had to have passed because the tepid water was becoming rather uncomfortable. He considered drawing another bath, but his smooth skin was pruning. Ultimately, it wasn't worth the effort.

Sherlock felt odd. Yes, he was stressed after an _understandably_ stressing day, but he did not feel wound up and irritable. He was not stimulated, yet he was not bored. Sherlock did not have proper words for how he felt.

It happened at random, his _moods_. His brain would give him _feelings_ that he abhorred and sometimes could not explain. So instead, he would withdraw from the world and enter his Mind Palace, or he would stomp about in a strop and complain until something interesting happened. Today, Sherlock didn't have the energy for either.

Sherlock pulled the drain plug and watched the few remaining bubbles swirl atop the water over the drain. He was a bit disappointed with the bath, not even the bubbles made up for it. He finally hefted himself to his feet when the yellow bath toy settled on its side on the shiny floor of the tub.

Sherlock lifted the shower liner over the edge of the tub and pulled the curtains closed, wincing at the metallic screech. He ran the water and flipped the shower head. He let the water rinse away the suds from his skin.

When he was satisfied and warmed up a bit, he gave his damp curls a quick, final rinse, and shut off the water. He finished the mundane, unconscious process of drying and dressing in his comfy pajamas and looked in the mirror.

What Sherlock saw was the unruly curls that take a considerable amount of time to tame and he decided to leave them be. He saw his defined cheekbones, pale as ever, contrasted with the dark circles under his eyes. He met those (typically) piercing, blue eyes and noted the were looking rather dull and foggy today.

The consulting detective frowned and his reflection frowned in return. He should have better control of his transport than this. He should not look so defeated. So _lost_.

Sherlock walked to his room to slip on his dressing gown before wandering, listlessly, through the flat. He stopped when he reached the kitchen and ran long fingers through his hair. His eyes automatically searched the room, landing on John. John said... something, but he wasn't sure what it was.

Sherlock blinked and took in the sight of his shorter flatmate. He looked relaxed and happy. _'So simple-minded.'_ John was wearing his oatmeal coloured jumper and held a mug he was stirring with a spoon. _'Ah, tea with sugar. That's for me, then.'_ More words left John's mouth that, again, did not register in Sherlock's brain.

With another blink, he moved to the fridge. The tub of sheep tongues was in his way, so he nudged it aside. _'Milk, there is no milk in my mug. Honestly John, even you should be able to deduce that this is a day requiring milk with tea.'_

Sherlock was holding the aforementioned carton of milk. ' _Cold_.' Now, he held a mug. ' _Warm_.'

More words from John followed by a chuckle and Sherlock found himself sat on the couch with the warmth he held in his hands pressed to his lips. "Hmm." It really did taste delicious. Sherlock settled in for a nice silence but was interrupted by more _dialogue_ from John. Maybe if he continued to ignore him...

John spoke _again_.

' _Alright, this better be important._ ' Sherlock grudgingly tuned in to the one-sided conversation and heard, "Okay... hungry?"

" _Hmmmmmm_..."

Sherlock was starving in fact. The last time he ate was, well, ' _what day is it?_ ' He left it to John to find him something to eat. John would take care of his hunger. Take care of _him_.

After a long moment, Sherlock felt warm fingers curl around his and take away his forgotten mug. He dared not move. He felt a bit less lonely near John and that was good. He tried to calm his mind, which he found easier to do around John as well.

Sherlock managed as much as putting his deductions on hold and let himself wonder what could possibly brighten his day.


	4. Hot Chocolate

John held Sherlock's cold mug of tea and stood there a minute, regarding the lanky detective. He received no reaction and Sherlock didn't seem to even notice the mug was not longer in his hands. _'Okay then.'_ John sucked in a deep breath and let it out it a huff.

It seemed fair to say that Sherlock needed something other than tea. The doctor in John was protesting that a _real_ meal was more important but he also recognized that Sherlock likely needed water and sugar in him first. Who knows how long it had been since the detective had eaten.

He set a small pot of water on the stove to boil and pulled down a tin of cocoa powder and sat it next to the sugar. He rooted through the cans in the pantry, ' _Aha!_ ' and found one can of condensed milk. _'Glad I did some shopping this week.'_

John found the vanilla extract, then the half empty bag of marshmallows from where it was stuffed in a drawer. He measured and stirred everything into the pot until the kitchen smelled wonderful. He turned down the burner to the lowest setting and washed out the two mugs of tea he'd made.

John hummed, ladling the hot chocolate into the mugs and pulled the tub of whipped cream out of the fridge to spoon a large dollop into each mug. _'Huh, I haven't done this since Christmas_ He smiled and found the shaker of ground cinnamon to sprinkle on top and plopped in a few marshmallows.

John carried one mug and a plate of chocolate biscuits over to Sherlock who hadn't moved an inch. He tried again, putting the mug into his hands. Sherlock absently took a sip, then sniffed, and took a bigger sip. He turned to look up at John and it took all of John's willpower not to giggle at the whipped cream on Sherlock's nose.

"John what is this?" Now, John understood that Sherlock's childhood must have been abnormal to say the least, but there's no way it could've been _that_ bad. "...You have had hot chocolate before, right?" John expected Sherlock to get defensive, but he just gave a small shrug. "Father was lactose intolerant, so Mummy always made hot chocolate with no milk or cream. It wasn't very... palatable." Sherlock wrinkled his nose a bit.

Sherlock took another sip and closed his eyes, leaning back a bit in his seat, finally unwinding. "This is good," Sherlock said quietly. John gave a warm smile. "Got some biscuits too..." Sherlock cracked one eye open to peer at him. "...what kind?" He handed the plate to Sherlock. "Chocolate of course. You get upset when I buy anything else."

Sherlock frowned at that but looked down at the drink in his hands. He shoved a biscuit in his mouth and took a big gulp of hot chocolate, then sputtered when he didn't have the biscuit chewed enough first. John patted Sherlock on the back and handed him a paper towel. "You know, you really should chew and swallow before you take a drink."

"Ack!" _cough_ "Really John? I hadn't thought about that." Sherlock laid down the sarcasm, but there was no bite to it. John just shook his head and brought his own mug to the other end of the couch to enjoy it. "So," he pressed, "anything sound good? I'm starving!" Sherlock didn't reply, but he didn't protest. He took another biscuit and finally nodded while nibbling on it.

John would have felt relieved that Sherlock wasn't going to fight him about the 'needs of his transport', but it only worried him more. He looked like a lost child, and it broke John's heart.

It was settled then, they'd just have Sherlock's favorite. "Chinese?" John prompted. Sherlock hummed in response. John went and ordered take out, and when he returned to the living room, Sherlock was draining the last of his hot chocolate, and licked cream off his lips.

John heard Sherlock mumble something, presumably at John but he wouldn't look at him, so he moved closer. "Sorry, what?" Sherlock flicked his gaze up to meet John's eyes. "I said 'thank you'."

That earned him a small laugh from John. "It's just hot chocolate." Sherlock smiled and looked to the side, he seemed a bit embarrassed. "No, it's more than just the hot chocolate, it-it's the..." Sherlock took a steadying breath. "everything. It's all the things that you do for me... thank you, John. Truly."


End file.
